


Halloween

by defying3reason



Series: College Boys and High School Girls [3]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-24 00:09:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defying3reason/pseuds/defying3reason
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Grantaire met for the first time at a Halloween party at Combeferre's apartment...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Halloween

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy all. I know I'm supposed to be working on other things, but then I found this half-started draft in my documents and thought it deserved to be finished...
> 
> So yeah. Hope you like it <3

They met at a Halloween party.

Combeferre was the mutual acquaintance that brought the first version of the group together, having an odd jumble of classes that incorporated all of them, what with his meandering interests. He even met Grantaire independently of Courfeyrac (Intro to World Art), which was quite the feat as they were all fresh from high school, and Grantaire’s experience of it had left him a panicky introvert. But Combeferre and Grantaire sat together and struck up conversations before and after class, Combeferre laughed at the sarcastic commentary Grantaire delivered under his breath during lectures, and they worked together whenever the professor asked everyone to split into pairs.

When Combeferre mentioned the party he’d been bullied into hosting by a charismatic acquaintance, Grantaire stared at him in some surprise. “Wait, Courf’s party is going to be at your place?”

Combeferre frowned. “I wouldn’t call it Courfeyrac’s party, exactly, as I am hosting it and setting the parameters. You know Courfeyrac then?”

“Yeah, he’s my best friend. We grew up together. I’ve kinda already been invited to your party.”

Combeferre sighed, but he was smiling. “I can’t say I’m terribly surprised. Look, I live alone off campus, but my parents are coming by for a visit on Saturday. What are the chances of my apartment being trashed so thoroughly by this thing that I’m going to humiliate myself and lose their trust? Right now they have no qualms about paying for an apartment for their eighteen year old, but if they think I’m partying instead of studying…”

Grantaire shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve never really been to a party before. Courf gets the invites, but only if he specifically promises not to bring me.”

That seemed to alarm Combeferre. “Is there any particular reason?”

“Oh, I don’t, like go crazy and trash everything. People just don’t like my mouth. Apparently I’m a downer.”

“I think you’re funny. Maybe they just don’t understand biting sarcasm.” Combeferre stood up, giving his messenger bag one last check to make sure he’d stowed all his materials after the lecture. “Make sure you come to the party, Grantaire. Now I’m going to be looking for you.”

“O-okay,” Grantaire said, feeling suddenly and inexplicably self-conscious. He nodded a goodbye at his friend, packed up his own shit, and ambled off for the cafeteria.

* * *

Despite the fact that it was a Halloween party, Grantaire showed up without a costume. He cited his history of almost zero social obligations as an excuse for missing out on this obvious custom and was generally left alone, though Bahorel, who was wearing a pretty impressive Indiana Jones outfit, kept offering to run out and get him something. “At least a fucking funny hat, dude. You’re in Salem and you’re not wearing a costume on Halloween. That shit’s just fucking wrong.”

Grantaire picked up a bottle of red wine and saluted Bahorel with it. "There. I'm Eddie Vedder."

"Eddie Vedder doesn't wear skinny jeans."

"Plus he's talented," Courfeyrac joked. Grantaire shot him the bird. "You know Bahorel, he’s not the only one without a costume,” Courfeyrac pointed out. His costume consisted of Spiderman pajamas, the laziness of which seemed to irk Bahorel almost as much as kids wearing no costume whatsoever.

Bahorel looked over his shoulder where Courfeyrac had indicated, then smirked and shook his head. “Yeah, but I’m pretty sure I can whine Grantaire into doing what I want. The slab of marble over there’s never going to crack.”

“Slab of marble?” Grantaire was intrigued already. One thing he’d noticed about the new friends Courfeyrac was collecting was that all of their nicknames, no matter how seemingly insignificant they were, carried meaning. The mention of marble caught the art kid’s attention.

“Oh, he means Enjolras. Have you not met him yet?” Courfeyrac asked. Grantaire shook his head. “Good. Don’t. I think you guys would be a volatile mix, and I promised ‘Ferre I wouldn’t let anything illegal happen in his apartment.” He said this while taking a sip of an artisan beer, so Grantaire mentally ammended the statement to 'nothing illegal besides underage drinking.'

“Enjolras ripping your fucking head off would definitely be illegal,” Bahorel said with a laugh.

Grantaire frowned. “I wouldn’t necessarily piss him off…”

“Dude, he’s a radical liberal-”

“So are-” Grantaire started to argue, but Courfeyrac talked over him.

“ _I’m_ a liberal, yes, and people like my parents would label me radical…but trust me. Enjolras makes me look like a fucking right wing ass hat. The kid’s made of convictions. He _believes_ things, Grantaire, and he’s passionate about them. Your sense of humor would definitely set him off. Especially now that you’ve knocked back a few.”

Grantaire glanced down at the wine in his hand and shrugged. “Alright, so who is it I’m supposed to be avoiding then?”

Bahorel stepped aside a little so that Grantaire had a line of sight to the couch, where the most beautiful human being Grantaire had ever seen was sitting, hunched over a book and taking the occasional sip from a water bottle that probably actually had water in it. Grantaire was pretty sure he forgot how to breathe for at least a minute when he first saw Enjolras.

He managed to recover some sense of brain function, and made a full recovery when he realized Bahorel and Courfeyrac were snickering at what must have been one hell of a dumbstruck expression. “So the marble thing…”

“I forget who started it,” which was an obvious lie. Grantaire was willing to be anything that Courfeyrac had kicked it off himself. “But yeah, we thought he looked kind of like one of those ancient Greek statues.”

“Fifth century High Classical period. I can see it, but I think he looks a little more Imperial Roman. There was personality in their statues. They did actual portrait work, not just archetypal figures of beauty. That’s a fucking beautiful man, but there’s more going on there. But yeah, slab of marble totally works.”

This had Bahorel almost doubled over with laughter. “Dude, you’re fucking gone, huh?”

“What, are you not looking at the same freakishly pretty kid I am? Because seriously, he’s like too attractive to be real. People aren’t supposed to look like that in real life. When someone looks like that, they’re supposed to be fucking abducted by the gods and dragged back to Olympus where they belong.”

Courfeyrac snagged the bottle out of Grantaire’s hand and took a long gulp. “I think you’ve had enough for the night.” Then, in a lower voice that almost made Grantaire forget to be indignant about his drink being snatched away, he continued. “Keep it down, dude. Enj gets a little testy when people talk about his looks. I guess he gets dismissed a lot because of his pretty face. And, y’know, for looking young. He’s my age, but everyone thinks he’s a freshman in high school, not college.”

“Ah. Okay, so I won’t open by telling him he’s too pretty to be real. Argh, Courf, there go all my best pickup lines.”

“Dude, you don’t have any good pickup lines. Also, leave him alone,” Courfeyrac said, rolling his eyes. “I promise you, if you try to pick Enjolras up it won’t end well.”

Grantaire frowned. “Is he straight or something?”

Courfeyrac and Bahorel both started to speak, then abruptly stopped. Bahorel laughed, while Courfeyrac looked confused and a bit contemplative. “You know, I’m not sure. It’s actually never come up.”

“You’re kidding. You’re telling me you’ve spent enough time with _him_ ,” here Grantaire motioned once again to the perfect manifestation of human loveliness masquerading as a college student mere feet from them, “to get to know him personally, but you’ve never tried to pick him up or seen enough other people attempt it to figure out what his preferences are? I mean, is everyone blind? You all see the same archetype of fuckability sitting there, right? How do crowds not throw themselves at him whenever he walks by? This is bullshit. You should know very well what his orientation is, and beyond that, what his type is. Because really, he can have his pick. Oh, shit, that’s why you’re trying to keep me from talking to him, isn’t it? He can have his pick and he’d have to be mentally subnormal to pick a fuckup like me.”

“Grantaire, will you keep it the fuck down?” Courfeyrac hissed. “Look, you’re _trashed_. If you want to make a good impression on Enjolras, now is not the time. I can introduce you guys some other time.”

“I am not trashed. But if that’s a challenge, I heartily accept.” He snatched the drink Courfeyrac had snatched from him back, downed what little remained, and ambled off towards the kitchen where Legle, in a zombie apocalypse themed getup (a thrown together at the last minute costume, from the looks of it) was doing shots from a supersoaker.

Joly, dressed as the tenth doctor, looked less than thrilled with the drinking vessel. “You did buy a brand new supersoaker, right? That’s not the one you were storing in your cousin’s shed, _right_? Bossuet?”

“Hey Bossuet, hit me,” Grantaire commanded. Legle obliged, and fired a stream of alcohol at him.

“This is so unhygienic. Not to mention dangerous. You assholes are finally going to do it! You’re finally going to give yourselves alcohol poisoning.”

“Ease up. Christ, of course you picked the emo doctor. Why couldn’t you have dressed up as eleven? You couldn’t piss and moan half as much without breaking character,” Grantaire complained.

Joly let out a loud ‘hmph’ and stomped into the other room.

* * *

As his demeanor implied, Enjolras was not at Combeferre’s (read: Courfeyrac’s) Halloween party to socialize. He was there because he’d promised to go and keep everyone in line if need be before he’d realized Halloween coincided with midterms. He was also there to help Combeferre clean everything up before his parents arrived for a visit in the morning.

Most importantly, he was trying to get The Sunflower finished so he could write a book review for his Comp class and submit it via the school’s website before the midnight deadline, but it was very difficult to focus when some scruffy looking hipster, who completely lacked in an indoor-voice, kept staring at him and being violently shushed by his friends. Enjolras was trying to focus on the horrors of genocide, but he kept getting pulled out of the book by overheard snatches of conversation.

“What, are you not looking at the same freakishly pretty kid I am?” That one had Enjolras gripping the book hard enough to crinkle the pages. He positively loathed being referred to as pretty.

‘Don't rush to judgment. Perhaps he’s talking about someone else.’ Though he kept staring in Enjolras’ direction, and no one else was sitting on the couch (which was why he’d chosen his spot).

“-so I won’t open by telling him he’s too pretty to be real. Argh, Courf, there go all my best pickup lines.”

Enjolras adjusted his posture a little bit so that he was facing the exact opposite direction from the inebriated loudmouth and his friends. Maybe he’d shut up if his view was limited to the back of Enjolras’ head.

“Is he straight or something?”

“None of your damn business,” Enjolras grumbled under his breath. He heard a couple of Combeferre’s new friends trying to puzzle out a response to the loud one (Enjolras was pretty sure it was the annoyingly flirty but intriguingly political history major and the tall undeclared redhead, though he didn’t care enough to make absolutely certain; he was trying not to hear them at all).

Then the loud one launched into a rant centering on Enjolras’ hypothetical sexual orientation, and he grew so angry he was faintly trembling.

“I had not yet told her why I had come,” Enjolras read aloud in a low, quiet voice, trying to block out the conversation he couldn’t help but overhear. “-indeed I had not yet made up my mind what I wanted to say. On the way to Stuttgart many thoughts-”

“-you’ve never tried to pick him up or seen enough other people attempt it to figure out what his preferences are? I mean, is everyone blind?”

“-Originally I had wanted to talk to the mother to check the truth of the story he told me. But was I not…”

“This is bullshit. You should know very well what his orientation is, and beyond that, what his type is. Because really, he can have his pick.”

“Not secretly hoping that I might hear something that contradicted it? It would certainly make things…oh for fuck’s sake.” Enjolras closed the book, giving up on getting anything done with that obnoxious voice hollering in the same room. He was seriously thinking about getting up and confronting the prick, but when he turned to do so he caught sight of the kid ambling away into the kitchen.

It was Enjolras’ first clear look at the owner of the obnoxious voice and what he saw wasn’t quite what he’d expected. The messy hipster exterior hadn’t changed, obviously, but Enjolras hadn’t noticed the large, clear, and startlingly emotive blue eyes before. They were definitely the kid’s best feature (though that wasn’t saying much-the other student didn’t seem to take very good care of himself and it told on his looks), but they looked haunted.

Something about the boy’s expression made Enjolras want to run to him, grab him by the shoulders, and tell him encouraging things until that haunted look left him and his eyes looked just as pretty as they ought to have been.

Damn. Now Enjolras was using the word pretty, and he hated the word pretty.

Still though. It really was the only adequate adjective for eyes like that.

Shaking off his odd moment of…whatever the hell that was (Enjolras worried that maybe he’d gotten too tired to write his essay) he picked his book up and tried to get back to work.

* * *

“Are you seriously doing homework? Dude. This is a fucking party. Didn’t anyone tell you?”

Enjolras kept his eyes trained on his laptop screen as he typed out the last two lines of a supporting argument, then he reluctantly glanced up and found himself face to face with those entrancing blue eyes he’d been trying not to think about. They were cloudy now, and their owner was weaving on his feet, but he offered a crooked smile that was charming somehow, despite the unevenness of some of his teeth.

“I need to have this finished before midnight,” Enjolras informed him.

“Ah. So can I talk to you in twenty minutes then?”

Enjolras checked the time on his computer and considered. “I won’t need the full twenty. You can talk to me in ten.”

“I’ll make it fifteen. You’ll need time to edit and submit the assignment, right? Right. Do you want something to drink?”

Enjolras shrugged, already back to work on his essay.

The boy returned fifteen minutes later with two plastic cups. He sat down on the couch next to Enjolras, almost spilling both drinks in the process. Enjolras politely took a cup, even though he wasn’t thirsty, and took a small sip.

He spit it back into the cup when he tasted alcohol in the soda and fruit juice concoction. He’d angrily set the drink down on the coffee table and was rooting around in his backpack for a pack of gum to get that taste out of his mouth before he realized how odd his behavior must have looked. “I don’t drink,” Enjolras said stiffly.

“Clearly.”

Enjolras felt his face grow warm. He chewed the gum, and when the taste in his mouth was more mint than his mother, he tried speaking again. “I suppose I should have said something when you mentioned getting me a drink. It…it doesn’t occur to me. I’m not twenty one yet.”

“Dude, I don’t think anyone here is.”

Enjolras frowned. “Someone had to procure the alcohol.” They did appear to be mostly freshmen though. Enjolras had no idea where the alcohol had come from, and Combeferre appeared to be equally baffled about it, and uncharacteristically annoyed to boot. He’d made Courfeyrac promise that there wouldn’t be underage drinking at this party, and Courfeyrac had sworn up and down that he wouldn’t do anything that would get Combeferre in trouble.

Enjolras made a mental note to never let Courfeyrac talk him into hosting any kind of social gathering.

“D’you want me to get you something else? I can mix a mean Shirley Temple.”

Enjolras found himself smiling, and some of the discomfort he felt while in close proximity to alcohol lessened. “No thank you. My name is Enjolras, by the way.”

“I know. Uh…sorry, that probably sounds creepy. I’m Grantaire.” He held out his hand, and Enjolras gave it a shake. “How’d your paper go?”

“It’s not up to my usual par, but I expect I’ll still get an A. My comp professor strikes me as soft in her grading.”

“Ah. Well that’s…good. I think. Um…so yeah. Hey.”

Enjolras looked at him expectantly, but Grantaire didn’t follow up his stammers with anything. Perhaps he was drunker than Enjolras realized. He wasn’t slurring his words at all, and he wasn’t as loud as he’d been earlier, but his balance had been shaky when he’d been on his feet.

And now he was staring at Enjolras with his mouth hanging open, as though entranced.

It was really disconcerting.

What the hell was wrong with this kid?

They both jumped at the sound of a phone chiming just in front of them. Grantaire’s face turned bright red when he realized Courfeyrac had taken a picture of them sitting awkwardly on the couch next to each other. Courfeyrac giggled before skipping back towards the kitchen.

“I still haven’t decided if I’m friends with you yet!” Enjolras called after him.

“You’ll succumb to my charms eventually, Enj!” Courfeyrac gleefully cackled back.

“He’s right, you know,” Grantaire mumbled. “I’ve been friends with that kid forever. I want to smack him upside the head half the time, mind you, but he usually manages to change my mind about that. I think it’s the infectious laugh.”

“Mm.” Enjolras frowned, feeling unusually self-conscious himself. “You don’t think he’s going to put that picture up on facebook, do you?”

“Bet you anything it’s already up.”

“Great.” Enjolras sighed. He struggled to think of more small talk for this friend-of-his-friends’ and was contemplating asking him if he had an opinion on genetically altered soybeans when Grantaire spoke again.

“You’re really pretty. Uh, I mean…shit. I should stop speaking. Courf told me not to say that and I did. But, it’s, like, I can’t turn that off. Y’know? I’m an art student. I’m supposed to look for this shit, and your bone structure is like flawless. And your hair reminds me of classical Roman sculpture, like right after they discovered drillwork and were still going nuts with curls. Seriously, curls everywhere on that shit. But like your neck is so long and graceful…it’s like New Kingdom Egyptian, especially with how sensual your lips are and I just really want to draw you. Oh fuck, I sound like a creeper. Stop me. Please stop me.”

“Wait, you’ve been staring at me because of artistic fascination?” Well. That was much better than the usual reasons people stared at him.

“You noticed I was staring at you?”

“You weren’t subtle. Also, I could hear you from across the room.”

Grantaire buried his face in his hands and let out a long, drawn out f-bomb. He followed it up with a meek apology.

He still had his head in his hands, so he couldn’t see Enjolras’ smile. “I wouldn’t mind, by the way. If you drew me, I mean.”

“What, really?” Grantaire sat up and fixed a hopeful look on him. “That’d be okay?”

“Well…yes. You’re an art student, aren’t you? Oh, and next semester you can repay me by letting me do an oral on you.”

Grantaire blinked like a deer in headlights. “I can’t have heard that correctly.”

Enjolras frowned. “I’m taking an oral history class and the final project involves conducting an oral history interview on a fellow student. If I help you out with one of your classes by posing for a drawing, you should help me by letting me interview you.”

“O-oh.” He looked oddly disappointed. Enjolras couldn’t figure out why.

They sat in an uncomfortable silence for a few more minutes, then Enjolras excused himself to go check on Combeferre.

He found his friend in the kitchen sorting empty bottles into the recycling with a frown on his face. He brightened up when he saw Enjolras approaching him. “Hey. I noticed you being social in there despite all your assurances to the contrary.”

Enjolras shrugged his shoulders. “He approached me and it seemed rude to tell him to go away.”

“That never stopped you in the past.”

Enjolras shrugged again and went to rinse out a bottle of cherry flavored soda for the recycling bin.

“It’s nice to see Grantaire coming out of his shell a little. He’s very quiet in our art history class. I think I’m the only one who talks to him.”

“He’s…” Enjolras struggled for a word to describe the sullen yet exuberant artist. “Interesting. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like him.”

“I just found out that he’s good friends with Courfeyrac. I’m thinking of inviting him to our café get-togethers, but Courf thinks it’s a bad idea. He says talking social politics with Grantaire is frustrating, and we’ll all be happier if we leave him out.”

“I don’t want to exclude anyone.”

“Neither do I. Plus…” Combeferre abandoned the recycling to join Enjolras by the sink. “I’m a little worried about him. Some of the things he says…”

“What does he say?”

Combeferre chewed his lip. “He gets very dark sometimes, that’s all. I think he needs more friends.”

“Well, dragging him to the Musain will be a start then.”

* * *

Enjolras and Grantaire got into their first Musain blowup before the week was out, the first of many.

Grantaire convinced himself that Enjolras hated him in no time flat, a task made all the easier when Enjolras himself couldn’t tell what to make of the messy drunk with the sad, thoughtful eyes and the most bitterly dark eloquence Enjolras had ever heard. It hurt him sometimes, hearing how bleak Grantaire’s worldview was. It had to be exhausting, to be that worn down and hopeless. He wanted to lift Grantaire’s spirits up, but he only got mocked for his optimism so he returned the mockery with a terrible bite.

One night before they all left campus for Christmas break, Courfeyrac and Combeferre lingered after a meeting to discuss their best friends. The rest of the group had already dispersed, Bahorel for a prior engagement he wouldn’t discuss, Joly and Legle to get a start on the drive out to Western Mass, Jehan to catch a train to Boston, and Grantaire and Enjolras yelling at each other about the effectiveness of boycotts.

“Does Enjolras have any idea that Grantaire’s in love with him?”

“Love?” Combeferre gave a start. “The last time we talked about this you said he was in lust with Enjolras.”

“Oh, he’s in lust with him too. But…I’ve never seen the kid like this. He’s gotten hung up on a pretty face before, but after a couple of weeks his shitty self-esteem gets him thinking that pretty people could never like him back, and then he laughs at himself and moves on. This is different. He’s not moving on.”

Combeferre had noticed some doodles in Grantaire’s art history notebook that looked an awful lot like his nearly lifelong best friend. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about the infatuation, but hearing Courfeyrac describe it as love didn't fill him with excitement and hope. “Enjolras seems pretty oblivious so far.”

“Mm.” Courfeyrac sighed. “Well, I can’t envision a scenario in which this ends well. Grantaire’s invested, and that kid _never_ gets invested. In, like, anything. And Enjolras is not equipped to deal with Grantaire’s drama and issues.”

“I don’t know. Enjolras comes across more harshly than he means to sometimes, but at his core he’s very compassionate. And he does like Grantaire…”

“He does?”

“Mm.” Combeferre smirked. “More than he realizes, even.”

“So he’s gay?”

“Yep. Not terribly interested in dating, but when he does get those stirrings they’re always directed at males.”

Courfeyrac considered. “Okay. I like Enjolras well enough. If this sensitive side you claim exists really is there, he has my blessing to date Grantaire. But mind you, he’s got to be careful. My poor little hipster is much more fragile than he lets on. If Enjolras breaks his heart I may have to kill him.”

Combeferre snorted, not least of all because he couldn’t picture the curly haired goof striking anyone, let alone killing them.

“No offense, Courfeyrac, but Grantaire’s not exactly the most stable person in the universe.”

“Understatement of the century, but I appreciate your manners. Go on.”

Combeferre made a curt little nod. “If he hurts Enjolras with his demons…I probably won’t kill him, but I won’t be pleased. Just because Enjolras is strong, it doesn’t give Grantaire the right to take advantage of that strength.”

“Agreed. I’m glad we settled that.”

“Mm. May it be that easy for our friends.”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac traded a long look, then burst into loud laughter.

 


End file.
